


my body is a temple, but like, for satanists

by airdeari



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Depersonalization, Gen, Trans Lysithea von Ordelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25358686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airdeari/pseuds/airdeari
Summary: “Here, let’s try this one,” Hilda says, holding out her palm to ask for Lysithea’s hand. “It’s floral like last time, but a little bit lighter and sweeter. My brother got it for me, and it’s nice, but I’m not really a fan of lilacs, so I don’t wear it much. You can have the whole bottle if you like it.”She dabs a drop onto Lysithea’s wrist. She sees it again, the faint white lines of old scars, clean and straight enough that they must be surgical. It’s a well-known secret that Lysithea’s physical health is poor, but the scars tell a deeper history.[Day 3 of FE Trans Week: Makeover/New Outfit/Haircut & Friends]
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril & Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42
Collections: Fire Emblem Trans Week 2020!





	my body is a temple, but like, for satanists

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is hereby explicitly stated not to imply that TWSITD are at all comparable to real-life religious devotees of the Church of Satan who, as I am aware, are actually kind of cool as heck on the whole. I just couldn’t think of a snappier phrase.

“Did you like the one I had you try last time?” Hilda asks, rummaging through the glass bottles in her drawers. “I can give you the same one, or something similar, or something completely different.”

Lysithea sits on her hands and rubs her knees together. “Maybe something you don’t wear very often,” she mumbles, which isn’t like her. “That way, people don’t think I just smell like you.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Hilda says with a laugh, “no one’s going to think that. In fact, perfume is designed to mix with the natural oils on your skin, so it smells a little bit different on whoever’s wearing it. Ooh, maybe this one?” She pulls out a nearly-full bottle and squints at the fine script on the tag around its neck.

Lysithea shrivels in her seat. “Will it… will it still mix with oils on… someone like me?” she whispers.

Hilda takes a moment to understand what she’s asking. “Oh… oh, of _course_ , Lysithea,” she says softly. “Perfume doesn’t know what gender you are, or how you got there. The little spritz I gave you last time smelled nice on your skin, didn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Lysithea says distantly.

“Here, let’s try this one,” Hilda says, holding out her palm to ask for Lysithea’s hand. “It’s floral like last time, but a little bit lighter and sweeter. My brother got it for me, and it’s nice, but I’m not really a fan of lilacs, so I don’t wear it much. You can have the whole bottle if you like it.”

She dabs a drop onto Lysithea’s wrist. She sees it again, the faint white lines of old scars, clean and straight enough that they must be surgical. It’s a well-known secret that Lysithea’s physical health is poor, but the scars tell a deeper history.

Lysithea is as studious with this as she is with everything else. She presses her wrists together gently, then reaches back to rub the sides of her neck. Hilda lifts her thick, white hair out of the way, combing through it with her fingers.

“Your hair is so nice,” she says. “So thick and healthy and soft. Do you ever style it differently?”

“Uh-uh,” Lysithea says. She brings one wrist near her nose and inhales, then smiles. “This smells nice.”

“It’s yours,” Hilda chirps. “Can I play around with your hair a little? I can’t believe you don’t try different styles, you have so _much_ of it to work with!”

“I guess I don’t really like my hair that much,” Lysithea mutters.

“Whaaaat?” Hilda leans over her desk to grab a brush. “Why not?”

“The color, mostly,” she says, as Hilda begins brushing. “It… didn’t use to be white, actually. Something happened to me when I was little that turned my hair this weird color. Now it doesn’t really feel like _my_ hair.”

She holds up her hands, bending them back to expose her wrists and the scars lining them. Hilda stops brushing.

“My whole body doesn’t feel like it’s mine. Not just because I’m transgender, but because they—because… it changed my body. That thing that happened.” She swallows. “I never asked for it. And it was horrible, and painful. I never felt like my body was mine after that, even before I realized I was a girl.”

Hilda puts down the brush. She sets her hands gently on Lysithea’s small shoulders. “Lysithea, I’m so sorry,” she says.

Lysithea shrugs, but not enough to nudge away Hilda’s hands. “It’s not as if it’s your fault,” she says.

“I’d still like to help you feel better, if I can,” Hilda says. “I know I can’t speak for your experience or anything, so maybe this is totally off the mark, but _maybe_ it’ll help you feel better about your body if you change it for yourself. You can take care of it, make it look as pretty as you want, and sort of… take it back from whoever hurt you.”

Lysithea is so still under Hilda’s hands. Her shoulders don’t even move. She’s not breathing. Then, quietly, but resolutely, she says, “I’m going to take it back.”

Hilda teases three soft strands of Lysithea’s white hair away from her temple. She’s helped Marianne with her braids before. She thinks she’ll be able to do this.

“Alright. Head to toe, we’re going to do you up,” she says, twisting the strands. “Hair, makeup, outfit, everything. Let’s make this _your_ body again.”


End file.
